by Hester Young
Even from a distance, the accompanying photo of the girl looks all too familiar.
I hang up as Isaac begins pitching a contract for another book and take the phone from Rae’s outstretched hand. The small photo displayed is black and white, like the page of an old yearbook.
“This is her? Lise Nakagawa?”
She nods.
I enlarge the photo of the girl and study her face: the long black hair, the curve of her chin. The thin, delicate nose, the way her dark, thick eyebrows hang like marks of punctuation above her seemingly pupil-less eyes. Unmistakable, this face.
It’s the girl in the hammock. The girl from my dream.
As I imagine the girl behind the picture, words like “serious” and “quiet” come to mind. According to the brief newspaper item, however, Lise is not the well-behaved child her photo would suggest. Nakagawa is a junior at the School for Free Thought, the Tribune-Herald notes, where teachers describe her as “bright but troubled.” Her mother, Suzumi Nakagawa, states that her daughter went missing once previously, but returned home forty-eight hours later. The sixteen-year-old was last seen by her boyfriend, who reported walking her home at approximately nine thirty on Wednesday evening. Her mother discovered her missing the following morning.
I hunt for some mention of Victor, but his name doesn’t appear anywhere in the article. That at least explains why Lise didn’t surface in any of my search results for him.
“That article is dated early October.” I stare at the pale wood floor and let out a deep breath. “Oh God, Rae. I’m so sorry to drag you into this.”
“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” Rae murmurs. “You’ve dreamed about her.”
“Last night. I didn’t know what it meant.”
Her eyes widen. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Remembering that scene in the woods and the disturbing perspective thrust upon me makes my stomach hurt.
Who was watching Lise that night? Who was touching her hair, unbuttoning her shirt, inhaling her scent with such creepy intensity? Is it possible I witnessed the final moments of this girl’s life in that vision? Or perhaps she’s still alive, being held somewhere by her stalker. What the hell did Isaac get me into?
“There are a couple other articles,” Rae tells me, rising from her seat. “More recent ones.” She hits the back button on her browser, and a list of search results appears.
I click through them quickly.
In that first article, one can almost feel the boredom of the beat reporter. Another runaway teen; snooze. The possibility of foul play changes all that, however. Subsequent articles focus on the boyfriend, described only as “a fifteen-year-old juvenile.”
According to police interviews, the boy admitted that Lise had broken up with him that night but denied any wrongdoing. Searches of his home turned up nothing. It is obvious from the progression of articles that law enforcement is gunning for this kid, and equally obvious that they don’t have a single scrap of evidence to substantiate their suspicions.
“They’re wrong, Rae.” I return the phone to her. “It wasn’t the boyfriend.” I don’t know whose eyes I was seeing through, whose ugly thoughts I took as my own, but it was someone on the outside. Someone who had seen her with her boyfriend and watched resentfully. Someone who waited, patiently, to get her alone.
“What exactly did you see?” Rae looks torn between fascination and alarm.
“She was in a hammock,” I say slowly. “This guy was hiding in the woods, watching her. It was dark. I think she was waiting for someone—it looked like she was signaling with a flashlight—but they never showed up. And then the guy in the woods . . . he surprised her.”
“Did he . . . hurt her?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t see that part. But Lise knew him. She definitely knew who he was.”
I let Rae absorb this for a few seconds. She tugs on one of her curls, twists it around her finger with a frown. “So . . . what do we do?”
In that moment, I love Rae more than anything. I am not alone in this. I am part of a we.
“Well,” I say, “we can’t go to the police. Even if they believed me, I don’t have anything specific to give them. And we sure as hell don’t tell Noah. He’d freak out if he thought I was up to something. He’d try to make me come home.”
“Ditto for Mason.” Rae shrugs. “So we don’t tell them. It’s Girls’ Week, what do they expect? What happens on the island stays on the island.”
“If we don’t get involved, there’s nothing to tell anyway.” Part of me hopes that Rae will absolve me of all moral responsibility here.
“Oh, we’re getting involved. Are you crazy? We can’t let this go. What about Lise?”
“She could already be dead.”
Rae’s hands go to her hips. “Even if she is, that guy is still out there.”
“We’re only here a week,” I protest. “And I’d be playing right into Isaac’s hands. This is what he wants, for me to run around inserting myself into—”
“Charlie. This is bigger than your jerkwad editor.”
I fall silent. Rae’s right. I can’t spend this week hiking through lava fields and strolling along black sand beaches, not now. As long as I am on this island, I am bound to Lise Nakagawa—and any other girls that stalker guy might go after. Only one course of action remains.
“We’d better leave.”
Indignation floods Rae’s face. “What? No! Are you seriously suggesting we leave the island? We just got here!”
“I’m seriously suggesting we keep our appointment with Dr. Nakagawa.” I slip on my shoes and grab my bag. “You know. Lise’s dad.”
six
At eight forty-five a.m. there is no line whatsoever at the modest guard shacks that mark the entrance to Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park. Only a few people mill about; the visitor center hasn’t opened yet. Somehow I expected more excitement, more bustle, but the innocuous brown sign seems more suggestive of summer camp than the fury of nature. The morning air is steeped in fog. As Rae drives deeper into the park, the eerie, swirling clouds move in ever thicker, concealing whatever geological marvels wait for us.
I’m not entirely clueless. I know the park houses two active volcanoes within its boundaries, that we are meeting Dr. Nakagawa by the summit of Kīlauea, the youngest of Hawaiʻi’s five volcanoes. At one time, visitors could walk across its summit caldera, a two-mile-wide, four-hundred-foot-deep depression created when the ground collapsed into the magma chamber hundreds of years ago. In recent years, Kīlauea’s activity has rendered that kind of tourist access inadvisable. Large portions of the park are now closed to the public. Victor Nakagawa is presumably one of the few who gets to breach those boundaries, but I’m still not sure I want a backstage pass to this show.
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” I wonder aloud. “This Nakagawa guy agreeing to see me.”
Rae’s eyes remain on the foggy road. “Weird how?”
“How is the man even functioning? His daughter has been missing for more than a month. You’d think he’d be a basket case, wouldn’t you? Seems like a strange time to be accepting interview requests. I mean, I couldn’t do it.”
There’s a silence as Rae and I remember Keegan and the mess I became in the wake of my son’s death, unable to perform my job or keep up with the most basic household duties.
“Maybe he’s hiding in his work,” Rae says. “A lot of people do that. And Lise is missing, not necessarily dead.”
“I guess.” But I’m not convinced. If anything, not knowing seems worse.
Per Dr. Nakagawa’s instructions, we follow signs to the Jaggar Museum and park in the lot. Through the mist, I can make out the museum and the Hawaiian Volcano Observatory, which connects off to one side. The fog rises up from the ether, eddying around us in damp and ghostly tendrils. It has a faint sm
ell, I realize. Not unpleasant, just vaguely mineral.
“Vog.” Rae puts her hand up to the milky white air as if to grasp it, and I feel stupid I didn’t realize it sooner. This is no ordinary mist but volcanic fog, clouds of sulfur dioxide and water vapor that mark our arrival at the legendary home of the volcano goddess, Pele. Usually the trade winds sweep the vog away—the breeze must be blowing the wrong way today.
“We’re a little early,” I tell Rae. “I guess we’ll just hang out a bit.”
We approach the scenic viewing station, where a handful of tourists peer out into the murky terrain. Not much to see with such poor visibility—I can’t make out the caldera or the infamous Halemaʻumaʻu crater within it—but I sense the gaping space before us. I remove the camera from my backpack and snap a few pictures. At this elevation, the morning is a chilly one, and I’m glad I have my sweatshirt. After a few minutes, the vog starts to disperse, revealing dark patches of land that stretch out to the horizon. The white wisps recede with surprising speed. Within ten minutes, the vog has all but disappeared from the parking lot and the viewing area, leaving us with an unobstructed view of the caldera and its crater.
“Beautiful,” Rae breathes, but I find it unsettling, the precipitous drop, the wasteland of hard black rock below. From the mouth of the Halemaʻumaʻu crater, a plume of smoke rises up. Like soup in an enormous iron pot, the earth is bubbling before us.
“Charlotte Cates?”
I whirl around, startled to hear my name, and find myself face-to-face with a lean yet muscular Asian man who is more than a little attractive. “Oh! Dr. Nakagawa.”
“Call me Victor.”
One look at Victor Nakagawa, and I know Rae must be glad she came. With his rugged face and runner’s build, the man is like a mail-order cover model for Outdoor Adventures. He has a sharp but well-proportioned nose, serious eyes, and no wedding ring. Though not all men can pull off facial hair, Dr. Nakagawa has nailed the scruff quotient to achieve maximum sexy. In jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, he looks ready to rumble, fully prepared to navigate molten lava while operating expensive seismographic equipment.
He does not look like a worried father.
“Victor.” I mask my questions with a smile. “So great to meet you. This is my friend Rae.”
Normally, I’d move in for a handshake, but Victor’s arms remain folded across his chest. He acknowledges Rae with a solemn nod, the corner of his mouth and eye twitching upward in a brief facial tic.
“You look just like your photos,” he tells me.
“Photos?”
“You’re all over the Internet,” he says. “That boy in the desert.”
“Oh, God. You saw that.”
“Of course. When you contacted me about the piece for Outdoor Adventures, I looked into you.” His tone reveals nothing about the conclusions he drew, but I can imagine. This is a man who demands hard data and peer review. I must look like an incredible flake.
“I’m surprised you agreed to meet after reading all that nonsense,” I say.
“Well, I read a number of your articles.” His gaze travels over me, as if he’s searching for signs of quackery. “They were thoughtful, well researched. Frankly, I was intrigued. How could a seemingly intelligent journalist like yourself turn around and make such a patently absurd claim to psychic abilities?”
Rae sees me bristle and touches my back, a gentle reminder to stay calm.
I lean against the overlook railing. The caldera yawns behind me, an expanse of nothingness that ends in rock. “I hope you didn’t let a bunch of Internet rumors color your opinion of me, Victor. For the record, I’m not out there claiming to have mystical powers. If you’ve been reading these stories closely, you’ll notice I haven’t spoken to any of these news outlets.”
“Some people might mistake your silence for approval,” Victor observes.
I force a laugh. “Some people might, but not you. I’m sure we’re on the same page when I say the reporting on the Alex Rocío incident has been . . .” I struggle to find a word that’s not an outright lie. “Irresponsible,” I conclude.
Victor smiles, pleased with himself. “I did suspect the whole psychic angle was a media fabrication to attract readers. How did you find that boy? Some source you couldn’t name?”
“A source, yes. I had a very reliable source, which is more than I can say for publications like the Squealer.” I don’t feel overly guilty about misleading him. The man seems unnecessarily harsh, mocking my methods for finding missing children when he has a missing child of his own. “Can’t do much about the tabloids, can you? I ignore the stories and stick to my job.”
Rae gives me side-eye, but my answer seems to satisfy Victor.
“Of course,” he says. “Personally, I maintain a healthy skepticism of the media, but you have to admit, they know their audience. The average person seems to prefer wild conjecture to thoroughly vetted facts.” His disdain for the “average person” reads loud and clear. I bet he reads Richard Dawkins and laughs conspiratorially at Bill Maher. “I enjoyed your articles, anyway,” Victor continues. “The one about the survivalist who developed an immunity to scorpion stings—very insightful. The parallels drawn to the vaccination process raise some intriguing questions.”
His compliment temporarily disarms me. “Yes! Thank you.” I spent several weeks working on the story about Tucson’s self-proclaimed Scorpion King, a man who injected himself with trace amounts of venom for years. Victor might be obnoxious, but his approval is still gratifying.
“You’re sure you want to write an article about me?” he asks. “Usually people’s eyes glaze over when I talk about my work or training. And I’m afraid I can’t drive up your readership with claims of clairvoyance.”
I ignore his smirk. “It’s not your job to be interesting, it’s mine. I have so much respect for your work and athletic achievements—really, I’m just excited to see you in action.”
“Me, too,” Rae says with such feeling that I nudge her with my foot.
He glances at her with mistrust, as if she might be making fun of him. “Well, I’m happy to show you around and answer any questions you might have.”
“Can’t wait,” Rae tells him. “And thanks for recommending Koa House. We love it. David and Thom have been so welcoming. Do you know them well?”
Victor shrugs. “I see them around town. They live in a pretty area. I have a friend out that way. Good bird-watching.”
I nod and smile as if I’m a bird-watching enthusiast, but the casual mention of his “friend” doesn’t escape me. Thom did say Victor spent a fair bit of time visiting Naomi Yoon. Could Victor be dating her? Or is their relationship more innocent? He’s a good-looking man, but I’m also getting a strong geek vibe. I could buy him having bird-watching buddies.
“Charlie and I have just been admiring the vog this morning.” Rae gestures to the empty air around us. “Is this normal? For it to move in and out so fast?”
“It’s not abnormal. It all depends on the wind.” Victor begins to walk abruptly away from us. “Come on. I’ll show you the observatory.” We leave the tourists by their protective railing and pass the Jaggar Museum.
Rae pauses in front of the HVO building, taking in another stunning view of the caldera. “Quite the place to work, Victor,” she says, and we all stare at the smoking crater for a second until I come to my senses and break out my camera.
“Do you mind if I get a few pictures?”
Victor flushes. “Of me? For your magazine? Sure.”
I attempt to make chitchat while he poses stiffly. “Do you ever train in the park? It looks like there are trails you could run or bike.”
“I try to keep my work and training separate.” Victor doesn’t crack a smile for any of the photos I’m taking, but I don’t mind. Stoic looks good on him.
“Quite the time commitment, isn’t
it?” I ask. “Your family must never see you.”
“It’s not a problem,” Victor says. “My wife stays busy, and my teenagers aren’t looking to spend more time with me.”
So he does have a wife, I think, revising my earlier guess about his relationship with Naomi. Maybe the absence of a wedding ring is just a practical choice. At any rate, the mention of his children gives me my first entry point to discuss his daughter.
“You’ve got teenagers, huh? How many?” Might as well play dumb and see what he offers of his own accord.
“Two girls.” Victor pauses before grudgingly offering up their names. “Jocelyn and Lise.”
“Pretty.” I get one more picture and slip the camera back into its case, done playing photographer for the time being. “Are those family names?”
“No,” Victor replies. “My daughters were named for physicists. Jocelyn Bell Burnell and Lise Meitner.”
“Burnell . . .” Rae sifts briefly through her memory bank and snaps her fingers when she gets a hit. “Radio pulsars, right? She’s the one who discovered them.”
Victor nods. “As a graduate student, yes.”
I toss Rae a sidelong grin. With her fashionable clothes and obsession with celebrity gossip, it’s easy to forget my bestie is also a whip-smart nerd. I myself have zero idea what radio pulsars are, much less knowledge of their discovery.
“Burnell should’ve won the Nobel Prize,” Rae informs me. “But it went to the men she worked with that year instead. Same deal with Meitner.”
For the first time, I see a hint of appreciation on Victor’s face. He likes Rae. “Lise Meitner helped to discover nuclear fission in uranium,” he adds for my benefit. “Her male collaborator received the Nobel that year. It was 1944, and she was both a woman and an Austrian Jew. Amazing she achieved what she did, with so many factors working against her.”
I’m already scribbling these tidbits down in my notebook. “So, naming your daughters for women overlooked by the scientific world . . . would you say you’re a feminist?”
He brushes off the question. “My wife chose their names.”